Seismograph
Fay Zwicky wrote in her journal once,
“I see the poet as a seismograph of the age’s dark regions”.
I had considered more arcane expressions
over the years, such as the poet as a shaman,
but I rather prefer to think of myself as
something as prosaic and useful as a seismograph,
wishing my graphs to stay still and flat,
showing no disturbance
in any dark places of these times.
My graphs, though, in recent years,
have erratically jumped, and jumped again.
Frighteningly, the disturbances have gone from the dark regions
to the surface,
shaking the seismograph itself,
sometimes so badly that it needs repairing
before it can go about its job
of monitoring and graphing the disruptions.
In these times of shaking and quaking,
of the burning core scoring the surface, raping and disintegrating
into shuddering chaos,
the seismograph can barely
hold itself together, and struggles
with the task of making meaningful graphs
in this dark age of such great seismic disruptions.
My seismographic spirit has been gaffer taped back together so many times
that I sometimes wonder if the next event
will see it completely fall apart,
graphs
grow
still
from the shock,
finally
utterly
useless for the task.
But, as we say, that will not be today;
today I will do my graphing.
